


Some Foolish Thing

by Chanel_Pirate



Category: Don Giovanni - Mozart/Da Ponte
Genre: Chases, Choking, First Meetings, Gaslighting, M/M, Power Imbalance, Prequel, detailed content warning in end notes, implied/referenced past sexual assault, though not on-screen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-29
Updated: 2020-04-29
Packaged: 2021-03-01 18:55:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,889
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23911918
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chanel_Pirate/pseuds/Chanel_Pirate
Summary: Leporello followed, regardless.
Relationships: Don Giovanni/Leporello
Comments: 7
Kudos: 11





	Some Foolish Thing

**Author's Note:**

> Stay safe, read the tags. Check the end notes for a more detailed content warning. The narration is in third person limited from Giovanni's POV, and he's not a nice man. Set about fifteen years before the opera. They're in their early twenties at this point in the timeline.

It was a peaceful spring evening in Seville. A light breeze carried the stifling scent of jasmine and orange blossom through streets heaving with people. Some were making their leisurely way home from a day of gainful employment, while those of a more nocturnal bent began assessing the long shadows cast by stately villas.

The air was feverish with the promise of dancing. Ships from the New World were berthing in droves, and merchants of all banners and creeds rushed forth in the hope of being among the first midwives on the scene. For now—that momentary forever—the streets were paved with gold.

The sombre remembrances of Holy Week and the renewal of baptismal promises had delivered the flock from evil. Thus refreshed, penitents young and old were ready to once more take up the sins they had professed to deny, unwilling to deprive the confessionals of entertainment, be it venial or mortal, they had been denied in turn.

Hypocrisy returned to being a subtle joke that Lent made vulgar. The houses of earthly trade could pretend to reopen; the taverns could pretend to resume service of stronger physic. Debt collectors admitted black-inked usury back into their unofficial ledgers. Far from the Alcázar, the city’s more anonymous inns could throw open their doors to the Church’s ill-favoured children. Itinerant prospectors seeking questionable jobs could once more go about patronising them.

So it was, and so the everlasting glory of Seville was upheld.

It was in one of those fine establishments that one of the foremost gentlemen of Castile endeavoured to enact his civic duty. He braced himself against the headboard with noble and heroic purpose. He made a show of trying to keep quiet. This was only at the request of the latest love of his life, currently thrusting between his thighs.

It was proving to be a triumph of an evening for Don Giovanni. Any day wherein he succeeded in being virtuous was a triumph. He extolled virtue, generosity most of all. And the generosity of his love was second to none. ~~~~

The man was an attentive lover, Giovanni noted. He was almost protective in the way he enveloped him, leaving kisses on his back, one hand crossing his chest, brushing at his nipple, the other wandering lower, stroking everywhere but his cock.

“Fernando,” Giovanni whined. Sweat dripped from his brow, but he didn’t dare loosen his grip on the headboard. His knees ached, pressed into what could only charitably be called a mattress. He squeezed his thighs, tighter. “Fernando, please—”

The man gave a strong thrust, leaning in as he did. “That’s not my name,” he panted, withdrawing his roving hand to instead pull at long hair.

Giovanni moaned, and drove himself back against the man’s cock. Being mistaken in a name had ceased to give him pause long ago. “Why do you tease so cruelly.”

He made to move a hand downward, to finally touch himself, to seek relief, but the man moved faster, gripping Giovanni’s hands beneath his own, and they were fully pressed together, chest to back. He was everywhere. “Because you love it.”

His breath was warm in Giovanni’s ear, and Giovanni writhed, grinding, turning his head to claim the man’s lips. “Do you want to, perhaps,” he started, and gasped as the man’s hand closed around his cock, swallowing for breath around his tongue.

Giovanni tried again. “I have oil, if you’d really like to make an evening of it.”

“Profane.” The thrusting sped up. “I don’t think I’ll last, if I’m honest.”

“Be not honest.” Giovanni tried to grasp at the body behind him, but was stilled with a hand pushing his head down.

“Quiet. I have the room until the morning. There’s time yet. How else would you let me have you?”

“Well,” Giovanni breathed, cheek squashed into the bed, and he was so close, “there is the matter of—”

A loud knock.

“Open the door!”

The voice boomed with authority, the kind that promised that the door would soon open, one way or another.

“Damn it!” Giovanni hissed. He was on his feet and fastening his breeches within the space of a breath.

“What—? How—?” His lover lay in confusion, both he and his erection dazedly bobbing up at him.

“No time.” Giovanni pulled on his shirt, picking up and throwing some clothes at the man at random. “Get dresse—”

“Don Giovanni! We know you are in there! Open the door!”

The knocking came again, though it was more of a beating this time.

“You’re a gentleman?” The man was already half-dressed. Fear spoke in motivational tones, Giovanni thought, and it seemed the man was clever enough to listen to her.

Giovanni shrugged as he tied on his cape. At the same time, he moved to throw open the window. His cock screamed at him, still hard, but he ignored it—this didn’t happen often. He did a quick survey of the world beyond. There was a flat rooftop, an easy drop away.

This time, the door rattled with the pounding it was getting. Giovanni glared at it with envy.

There were new voices murmuring behind the door.

“We will not ask again!”

“Come on, let’s go,” Giovanni said, before he could think about it for too long. It was a novelty for him to be jumping out of a window with a lover in tow, rather than in pursuit, but the scene was unambiguous. He didn’t like the man’s odds should their rude guests be too God-fearing. Especially not when he, Giovanni, might later get a buggering for his valiant trouble.

“What on earth? Go whe—”

Several things happened in the following instant: a cry rent perfumed air; the door smashed open; and Giovanni landed on his back on the roof, with the man atop him.

He rolled them into the parapet and out of plain sight before the agony could fully make itself known. Tears streamed down his face. He held his arm out to still the other man.

“Where is he? Find him!” roared a voice from above.

His companion was looking at him in concern. He opened his mouth, but Giovanni, having been born into a class selected and bred over centuries only to command, silenced him with a look.

God, but he was in pain.

“He must be on the roof over there,” came a different voice. “After him!”

“What, jump there?” Another voice. “What, are you mad? I have children to feed.”

“You want to be the one to tell the _Se_ _ñor_ why we lost him?”

“You want to jump?”

A ripple of silence.

“To the street, then. There’s nowhere to go but down.”

This bought them some time. Giovanni let out a rasping breath.

His roof-mate looked at him with concern. Giovanni thought he might ask some inane question along the lines of, who are they, what is happening, who are you, what have you done to them.

Instead, he asked: “Are you alright?”

Giovanni grit his teeth. “Tell me—forgive me, what’s your name again?”

The man was unfazed. “I never did tell you. Call me Leporello.”

“What”—Giovanni turned to face him, and if moving didn’t hurt he would have laughed—“in good faith?”

Leporello said nothing.

“Fine, fine. Leporello, we need to get out of here. Now.”

Using the parapet for support, he pushed himself almost to standing. He peered over, looking for anyone armed and in a hurry. None. Yet.

“Do forgive me. ‘We’?” The quote marks were palpable. “They don’t even know who I am—”

The entrance to the inn was on the other side to the window from which they’d defenestrated. They would soon be turning the corner.

No time for this. The charm offensive, then. “Yes, _cari_ _ño_. We want to get back to that room sooner rather than later, don’t we?” He took Leporello’s chin in hand. “They’re not expecting two. That’ll work to our advantage. Besides. It’ll be fun. We like having fun. Don’t we.”

He let go of a startled Leporello to look around the rooftop.

“What will happen if we’re caught?”

There was a balcony close by, not far from the edge opposite. He moved towards it.

“I don’t want to find out, do you?”

Leporello sighed, and ran towards him. “That won’t work, there’s nowhere to move to next. Look—there’s a balcony below, here, we can jump off it to the street, and hopefully by the time they get around—”

The faint sound of shouting reached the rooftop.

“Very good.”

“I don’t know why I’m helping you.”

Leporello lowered himself to the balcony, and reached his arms out to help Giovanni down.

“Do you not?” Giovanni smirked.

Leporello brushed dust off Giovanni’s shoulder, grumbling. “A gentleman and he doesn’t think to post a servant outsi—what are you doing?”

But Giovanni had jumped down to the street, landing heavily and startling a woman carrying a laundry basket.

“Good evening, _se_ _ñorita_ ,” he said, and his smile was really more of a grimace. Fortunately his feet were not injured, and he disguised his floundering as peacocking. “I do apologise. I had to jump down to see you.”

There was a thump behind him. The woman screamed and ran whence she came. Giovanni turned, and realised for the first time that Leporello had not managed to fully do up his clothes. His hand reflexively went to his own breeches. It would seem he hadn’t either. His cape, however, was impeccably in place.

Giovanni opened his mouth, but Leporello interrupted him, seizing his wrist. “No time, _patr_ _ó_ _n_ _.”_

The sarcasm with which he imbued the honorific was impressive enough that Giovanni let himself be dragged into an alleyway. He heard raised voices and brisk footsteps moving along the street they’d left behind them. Leporello let go of him, gesturing ahead.

The alleyway opened into a courtyard, criss-crossed with clothes-laden washing lines. From here the woman with the basket must have come, thought Giovanni. Firm breasts pushing out her chemise as she stretched to take down linens. Her lips pink and soft, pressed in a moue of concentration—

“What are you doing? Quickly!”

Giovanni blinked.

_“_ They’ll be here any minute,” Leporello said, ducking behind a sheet. “Here! They’re not expecting two!”

Giovanni jogged ahead to join him. “You’re very good at this,” he said when they were level, ignoring the pain shooting through his side.

“I’ve had practice running.” He stared ahead resolutely at the sheet. Something alive and chaotic danced behind his eyes. Giovanni liked it.

Then: footsteps. Slowing. Coming to a standstill.

“He must have gone that way,” said the voice that had harassed the inn door. “That's the marketplace.”

Giovanni tried to think how two men casually standing behind a bed sheet for whatever reason should look from the knees down. He opted for simplicity, and kept still. He hoped his shoes did not look too lordly.

“Must be trying to lose us there. Let’s follow,” said another.

As their footsteps faded, Giovanni made to move, but Leporello stilled him with a hand to the shoulder.

So Giovanni took the opportunity to look at him properly as they waited. There hadn’t been much looking, earlier. Not much talking, either. Just a certain spark, a catching of eyes, and enough customarily veiled repartee for each man to understand that the other was of agreeable disposition, and subscribed to a similar school of thought.

He was wiry, and not as classically handsome as was Giovanni, but very few were. His face would launch few ships, if any. But that had never mattered to Giovanni, at any rate. Giovanni would never tire in appreciating and finding beauty in all its forms. And though a surface quest was always enjoyable, the satisfaction was all the more beautiful when one had to work to uncover it.

Leporello lowered his hand from Giovanni’s shoulder, and relaxed. “It should be safe now.” He finally turned his eyeline away from the sheet. “What are you looking at?”

Giovanni let a smile spread across his face. “Not a thing, _cari_ _ño._ _”_ He tilted his face towards Leporello’s. “Just thinking that I seem to have forgotten my hat in that room. I’ll need to go back and get it, soon.”

It seemed to him that Leporello would have kissed him then, but then he froze. “How many voices did you hear. On the roof,” he whispered urgently. “Was it two, or three?”

“I thought maybe four?” came Giovanni’s helpful offer.

Leporello’s eyes darted back to the sheet. _“_ _Mier—”_

The sheet in question was ripped off the line by a tall, blue-eyed man wearing a distinctive uniform. Giovanni could appreciate that most people would notice the halberd first. It was shorter than the man.

For a second, they all looked at each other, Giovanni’s look perhaps a little more penetrating than appropriate. He did love a man in uniform, though it was possible that this was not the time, as Leporello broke into an impressive sprint, once more pulling him along.

“For heaven’s sake, come on!” Leporello shouted, and all Giovanni could do was laugh as he ran, free and loud, ducking and weaving through clotheslines. To his credit, Leporello didn’t turn to look at him as though he were mad, though that was, on the balance of probability, on account of the tower of a man who was currently in swift pursuit.

There was swearing behind them, and a clatter. Giovanni hoped it had something to do with misplaced laundry. They broke through the other side of the alleyway and into the marketplace—and a sea of people. People packing things into crates. People loading carts, both ox and mule-driven. People counting coin. People comparing sales.

People everywhere. Good. They slowed into a fast walk. Leporello looked over his shoulder. Giovanni deigned to look as well. He couldn’t see the man, and there was no doubt that if he was there he would have, with his proximity to the clouds and bright attire.

“Wasn’t that bracing—”

“Who on earth and all the hells did you offend,” Leporello hissed, then lowered his voice when people turned to look at them, “that there are switzers—switzers!—being sent after us? And what did you do?”

Giovanni kept walking. He noted the use of ‘us’.

“His legs are almost as tall as I am!” Leporello wailed.

Giovanni kept walking.

Leporello grasped at his shoulder. “Answer me!”

Giovanni sighed, and stopped. “I’m thinking. By all means, if you would be so kind as to let me arrive at an answer.”

Heat rose in Leporello’s cheeks. “You mean there is more than one possibility?”

“Mine is an eventful occupation, I will have you know and—won’t you look at these silks, there’s a fellow.”

He hooked his arm around Leporello’s elbow, pulling him to the side, and into perusal of Madame Sosostris’ finest headscarves.

“Did you know she imports them direct from Alexandria every fortnight? Extraordinary!”

He hoped this would work. Leporello, though obliging, was finally giving him that look everyone eventually gave him, as though he were uselessly mad. Better sooner rather than later. Madame Sosostris, on the other hand, was looking at him with that expression unique to vendors. It said, while I appreciate your custom, and moreover your coin, the shop’s closed ten minutes ago, and what I would appreciate most of all would be to pack up and go home for some hot toddy.

Leporello’s brow unfurrowed in understanding.

“Don’t turn around, whatever else.” Giovanni picked up a scarf, and all but buried his face in it. The dust of the loom drew out some pleasant memories of the weavers of Granada, and many a misspent afternoon at the Alhambra. Not now, Giovanni. “He must be walking past behind us, about now.”

“Will you be buying anything?” said Madame Sosostris, patience about as frayed as the fashionable edges of her scarves.

Leporello was holding one in deep blue. Giovanni couldn’t help but observe that he liked the colour against his skin. Very much so. Then his thinking turned strategic.

“How could I not, madame?” Giovanni gave her a purse of coin, his hand lingering on hers. He was sure it could have paid for ten scarves. “Then I may think of your enchanting eyes every time I look upon it.”

Madame Sosostris narrowed her eyes, less enchanting in their current form. “What poor green girl will you tempt with it this time, Giovanni?”

Leporello’s eyes flitted between them. He seemed to be settling some arithmetic.

“Always a pleasure. Good evening,” Giovanni said quickly, snatching the scarf from Leporello and turning on his heel, throwing the scarf over his head and shoulders as he did so. He walked in the direction from which they’d just arrived, continuing down the market road, past the alleyway. He could feel Leporello’s presence, keeping pace.

They seemed to have lost their pursuers.

“Do you know, I think I have the shape of it now.” Leporello’s tone was sharp. “Be at liberty to disavow me of the notion. The question might be not of whom you have offended, but of whose daughter.”

Giovanni’s eye twitched. “You are persistent. What is it to you?”

The number of stalls lining the street had dwindled. Darkness was beginning to fall. A bubble of anticipatory quiet surrounded them.

“Aside from the small matter that I am being chased by the most fearsome mercenaries known to the continent—what are you doing?”

One of the buildings flanking them had a small colonnade running along it, a low wall joining the columns at hip-height. Giovanni stepped over it, wincing. He was not looking forward to his body’s complaints in the near future.

“The wall,” he said cheerfully. “It completes my disguise by covering the male attire on my latterly half, like so.” He gestured.

“I don’t understand you.” Leporello followed, regardless.

“You see, by use of the headscarf, I am appropriating the disguise of a fashionable young daughter of Castile, any of whom would be delighted to be seen in public in a garment of this quality. But of course, the effect is quite ruined with a pair of breeches and buckled shoes in plain view—”

Leporello’s stare was vacant.

“Don’t you see?” Giovanni continued. “By waiting here, suitably apparelled, we shall find our safety, for surely they are expecting us to run, rather than, as they say, remain in—”

“Not that. What have you done? Tell me.”

“You are proving dull,” Giovanni snapped. “Very well. I have deduced that it is unlikely that I have run afoul of the Commendatore this time. His wife usually spends this time of year in Toledo, with their infant daughter. On the balance of it, it is likely that I have raised the ire of the ambassador from Mantua, as not long ago I extended the hand of friendship to his daughter.”

Leporello just looked at him. He couldn’t read his eyes in the dusk.

“And did she accept?”

Giovanni hesitated. There was something dangerous there.

“I’m sure she would have, in the end—ah!” The air left his lungs as back slammed against a column.

“So you forced yourself on her?” Leporello spat. His hands were on Giovanni’s neck.

“What’s got into you, man? I wouldn’t say forced, more, insinuated—”

“Insinuated? Insinuated?” Leporello’s grip tightened. Giovanni choked, sputtered.

None may know what might have become of the legend of Don Giovanni were it not for one passing merchant.

_“_ _Se_ _ñora?_ Is everything well?”

Leporello stepped back, not for a second taking his eyes off Giovanni. “It is nothing,” he said. “A simple marital matter.”

The merchant nodded and carried on. They stood in silence for a while.

“Very good, Leporello,” Giovanni purred, rubbing at his neck. “Playing the strict husband. The possibilities!”

“Shut up. You tempt fortune overmuch.”

“See, you are a natural, _cari_ _ño_!”

Leporello stepped into his space again. “Call me that again and I’ll kill you.”

Giovanni was hard. He’d been hard since Leporello’s hands had been around his neck. “You couldn’t. I think you might be a bit of a coward. That’s why you run.”

Leporello turned his head, eyes downcast, his hands either side of Giovanni’s head. “Then why is it that you yourself run, _patr_ _ó_ _n_ _?”_

Giovanni’s face split into a grin. “For I love my life. And I am but a supplicant to my liberty.”

Darkness was making its rapid descent. Leporello searched his face, and it seemed to Giovanni almost as though he were pleading with him.

“Do you ever repent?”

The grin slid off his face. His teeth tightened, instead. “I beg your pardon?”

Leporello watched him. “I said, do you ever repent? Do you ever think about the course of your life, and perhaps think, but not for a step in this direction, or that—would you? Do you not fear—”

“No!” Giovanni snarled. “Never!” His hands bunched into fists at Leporello’s shirt. He was shaking. “Do you think I care a jot—You are all the same—and I, alone, stand for—what, because some invisible father in the sky—I do not fear—”

Leporello’s eyes flickered to the side, then back to him in alarm, then again to that same side.

His mouth crashed against his, mid-tirade. Giovanni made a startled noise. Breathless from rage, he pushed at Leporello’s chest. “Stop this instant—”

“Shut up. I’d rather not, either,” Leporello murmured into Giovanni’s mouth. “Two of them. Right there.” And he went back to kissing him.

And damn it, but he was good at it, and Giovanni could never in his life deny a warm body that wished to partake in his own. He threw his arms around Leporello’s shoulders, and clutched at him for dear life.

Everything else faded to the background, as it often did for him when the pleasures of the flesh were concerned, but he could hear a wolf-whistle and laughing from behind him, and fainter still, retreating footsteps. Yet all he could think was, let the mercenaries have their show. He ground his hips into Leporello’s and moaned at the thought of being hoisted up and taken, right in that moment, with eyes on them.

Leporello gasped and pushed back into him, crowding him further, biting at his lips. He thrust at him, one hand bruising Giovanni’s hip, the other inching beneath the headscarf to wind into his hair.

“Please, please,” Giovanni mouthed into Leporello’s lips, trying to find purchase in anything at all.

“Demanding,” Leporello breathed, leaning in to kiss his jaw, making his way down to his neck.

“Oh God. Oh God. To hell with it all.” Giovanni gathered the will to pull away, and began lowering himself to his knees.

“Wait, wait.” Leporello stilled him with a hand to the shoulder, panting. “They’re gone.”

“What?” Giovanni blinked, suspended between standing and kneeling. “Who?”

Leporello looked at him with thinly disguised contempt.

“Oh, yes. And?”

Leporello scoffed, and tucked a strand of fair hair behind Giovanni’s ear. “And this is where I leave you.”

“Leave—leave? What? Leave to do what?” Giovanni laughed, and gestured over the tent at his front, but Leporello said nothing. His long legs easily swung back over the wall. “What. I am speaking to you, what!” Giovanni jumped the wall. Gingerly.

Leporello didn’t slow his pace. Giovanni ripped the scarf off, leaving it to cling about his neck as he strode after him. “Come now, wait. I’m not yet finished—”

Leporello whipped round in fury. “No, but you will be. And I am not ready to—” He shook his head, letting out a long breath. “You had really ought to keep better track of your affairs. I wash my hands of this, while I can.”

Giovanni stood stock-still, and watched him leave. His heart waged a war with his pride. Tears pricked at his eyes. How odd. “Oh yes? Perhaps you should do it for me, seeing as you take such an interest!” he screamed.

This had possibly been a mistake.

A throat cleared behind him. Giovanni didn’t bother turning. He had the ne’er-do-well’s sharpened sense of when it was time to proceed into a swift retreat, or get caught.

He ran, feet flying across the cobblestones, passing Leporello, and an extra pair of footsteps followed behind him, accompanied by some of the most creative cursing Giovanni had ever had the fortune to hear.

All he could do was laugh, really.

And run.

*

“You know, ha. I was thinking that it would be grand to go on a tour, of sorts. Leave town for a while. Get out of the heat, over the summer.”

Leporello didn’t look impressed.

They were in some dark corner of the docks, out of breath, hidden from view by the stack of barrels at their backs. Could be wine or oil, Giovanni mused, with a swell of civic pride that couldn’t be dampened by the stench of the river beside them. If anything, it reinforced it.

Filthy whore of a city who drank, fucked, and poisoned her way to glory. A woman after his own heart. Giovanni did not fear; even she would anxiously await his return, loath would she be to admit it. Such was the way.

“Imagine it, Leporello.” Giovanni gesticulated, his hands wide in the air. He held an edge of his new scarf in one hand, so it traced blue patterns where it floated after him. “Up through the mountains to France, then to Milan, perhaps going as far as Venice! Then up to the mysterious German lands, and following the Danube, down, down, imagine the women! So many types!” The nature of his gestures changed. He elbowed Leporello’s side. “Perhaps even cross the Bosphorus into the heartlands of the Caliphate! I heard the men there openly take male lovers. Imagine!”

Leporello looked at him with a strange expression. It was a face full of thunder; but Giovanni had always loved to play in storms.

“Marvellous, _patr_ _ó_ _n_. Might you consider leaving this instant? It seems a ship is setting sail just yonder.” He risked a glance around the stack.

Giovanni decided to ignore the sarcasm. “I would need to make some minor arrangements, of course, but I could be gone within the week.”

“I’m pleased for you, really. A sterling plan for a young noble. I’m sure you shall have many conquests.” Leporello glanced around again, leaning his body out further. He gave a satisfied nod, and made to get up.

Giovanni stilled him with a hand to the shoulder. “Would you like a job?”

Leporello sat back down heavily, and blinked at Giovanni.

“What?”

“Before, in the inn, you said you had come here to find work.” In all honesty, Giovanni had surprised himself with the offer. He tried to hide that he had no idea what he was saying. “You could, ah, you said yourself, someone to stand guard. To track my, aha, affairs. You could, you could.” He knew he was fumbling through, but he prided himself on his ability to make it through any fumble. “You could arrange things,” he finished lamely.

“What?” Leporello repeated, but he shook his head, laughing. “What sort of job do you call that? Good day.”

Giovanni jumped onto his feet after him, reaching for his shoulder before he could leave. It was forming itself more into one of his many perfect ideas by the second. “Wait! You could call it—yes. Be my valet.”

There was a hunted look in Leporello’s eyes. And another thing: greed. Giovanni could work with that.

“What are your other options, hm?” he added. He was reeling him in, he knew. He always did, in the end. “Who would take you as you are? A man with no history, no family, no trade? No name? No wife?” He let the implications of the last linger, and smiled a mad little smile. “And where else would you find such, ha, perks? See the world. Handsome pay. Handsome master.” He couldn’t resist.

“I wonder what you could be thinking. What could be running through your mind. Your intentions,” Leporello said quietly. Yes, he had him.

“In all honesty? When I left the house today, I was looking to get buggered. What?” he demanded of Leporello’s look of disbelief. “I had given it up for Lent.”

There was a pause as Leporello pretended to deliberate.

“Damn you to hell,” Leporello said. He looked around, as if searching for an escape route. Perfect, Giovanni thought, a natural at the job already. “Very well. Someone needs to keep an eye on you.”

“Excellent, excellent!” Giovanni took his outstretched hand. Instead of shaking it, he used it to pull Leporello in. “Seal it with a kiss?”

Leporello rolled his eyes, and pushed Giovanni away and into the barrels. He followed, a hand resting on Giovanni’s throat. Starting to press down. “I don’t think you’d be satisfied with a kiss.”

“Good man,” Giovanni purred, hands flying to his breeches. “Do what you will.”

He was turned roughly, as clothes were pushed out of the way, right there in the open air, as Leporello moved, too quick for thought. Barrel wood rasped against his face. Oh, he would feel everything tomorrow.

Giovanni sighed happily.

The world would be his. And he would never be alone.

He loved his life.

**Author's Note:**

> Follow me on [tumblr](https://chanelpirate.tumblr.com/). Comments welcome, I'd love to know what you think.
> 
> CN: It is implied that Giovanni sexually assaulted a woman at some point, and that he doesn’t see it as assault. The act itself is not explicitly referenced or described further. Leporello chokes Giovanni, not intending it in a sexy way, though there is some of that later. It is read as domestic abuse by a passerby, but is then ignored as it is considered a personal matter, because marriage, property, 16th century Seville, not that this attitude is restricted to that time and that place. Finally, Leporello gets gaslit by Giovanni, for the first and far from the last time. This is possibly something rather dark masquerading as a rom com, so yeah, on-brand for Don Giovanni.


End file.
